


Who Says Romance is Dead?

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is determined to give Napoleon the romantic weekend he deserves.  too bad he didn't check with The Fates first.  Written for Older, Not Dead</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Says Romance is Dead?

It just wasn’t fair.  Outside the wind and rain pelted the glass and inside Illya’s breath clouded the window pane.  It was supposed to have been a celebration of their twenty-five years as partners and fifteen years as lovers.  It was supposed to have been romantic and fun.  It was supposed to have been the break they both needed.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

****

 

Napoleon was like a kid in a candy shop, peppering Illya with questions.  “Can’t you at least give me an idea of where we are going?”

“No.  I’m all too familiar with how you work.  You’d figure it out in a heartbeat.”  It was a lie, but necessary.  Neither of them had been to this particular coastal spot, but it was one that catered to alternative lifestyles.  They could be themselves, if only for the weekend.

“Just a hint.”

“No and stop asking.”

Napoleon looked out the car window.  “I’ll bet it’s Martha’s Vineyard.”

Illya almost went off the road.  “How do you do that?”  He tried to keep his disappointment out of his voice.

“Do what?  Pull a name out of the air like that?  I could say that it’s because the name suddenly occurs to me in an explosion, but I saw something from Martha’s Vineyards come in the mail a week ago and, besides, it’s perfect for us.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Gay Head Cliffs?  Is there any doubt?”

Illya smiled and forgave Napoleon his lucky guess.  “I should have known.  Yes, that is where we are headed, but tell me you don’t know where on the island.”

“Not a clue.”  Napoleon settled back, happy with his victory.  “That I will leave up to you.”

***

Illya had braced himself for trouble as he checked in.   And he got it.

“Are you sure it was this weekend?”  The clerk was looking through his files.  “I can’t find anything.”

Illya pushed the reservation letter to him, but even as he did, his spirits were sinking.

“Trouble?”  Napoleon appeared at Illya’s elbow.

“Our reservation seems to have gotten lost.”

The man was red-faced as he vainly searched.  “I’m sorry.  I can’t…”  He fumbled with paper.  “The owner never put you on the books.  He’s old and confused.”

“Is there something you can do for us?”  Napoleon asked.

“Well, I have the garden cottage, but there’s a difference in price between that and the room you booked--”

“But you are going to let us have it for the same price, aren’t you?”  Napoleon’s voice was polite but very firm.

“But…”

“We are part of a travel agency and we could make things difficult for you.”

“Ah, yes, sir, I guess I could.  It’s just that...”

“No more.  This is final.”

Illya filled out the necessary paperwork, picked up the map to their room and walked quietly out of the lobby.

“Illya, what’s wrong?  You should be happy.  We got a great room.”

“Which we are paying too much for because I booked the owner’s suite.  Thanks to your insistency, I am now paying double.”

“Oh… I’ll just go back.”

“No, it’s fine.  Let’s just get to the room.”

At least the cottage proved to be well appointed and tasteful.  There was a little fireplace, already stacked with wood, a comfortable bed and a good size bathroom.  The décor was nautical and not overdone.  The queen bed was firm and the pillows soft.

“We’ve stayed in much worse.”  Napoleon set his suitcase down and looked around.  “At least it’s not all chintz lace and frilly things.”

“I refuse to say a word one way or the other.”  Illya hefted his case up onto a luggage rack and it collapsed.  “Case in point.”

“That’s my little pessimist.”  Napoleon reached for Illya and there was a knock on the door.  “Who could that be?” 

“With my luck, Mr. Waverly.”

“He’s dead.”

“I know.”  Illya opened the door and there was a young man standing there with an ice bucket and champagne. 

“Compliments of the management,” he said, carrying the champagne through and setting it on a small round table.  He looked at the suitcase on the floor.  “I will get you another luggage rack.”

“That’s not necessary, thank you.  Napoleon slipped a bill into the man’s hand and sent him on his way.  As he turned back, he saw Illya glancing at his watch.

“Is there a problem?”

“Yes, we have some place we need to be.”

“The bottle will save.  Or should we take it with us?”

“No, I think in this case it would be best to leave it here.”

“Back to the car?  Is lunch going to be involved at some point?”

“Yes.” 

***

Or at least that was the plan.  Illya quickly discovered that this was a weekend of surprises.  He pulled up in front of the stables, half expecting to find them burned down. 

“Hi there!”  The woman approached them with an air of confidence and the smell of having been around horses.  “You must be Kuryakin and Solo.  I’m Hanna, the owner.”

“We are.”  Illya held out his hand to shake hers.  “Is everything ready?”

“It is, but I would step lively.  The forecasters are calling for some bad weather later this afternoon.”

“He’s an old sea dog.”  Illya indicated Napoleon.  “He’ll keep an eye out and have us back long before then.” 

“Your clothes aren’t exactly right for riding.”

Illya nodded.  “I have a change in the trunk.”

“Okay.”  She pointed.  “The restrooms are over there.”

Quickly they went from suits to jeans and flannel shirts.  “Why don’t I take these back and you get the horses?”  Napoleon asked, neatly folding his suit jacket.  Illya nodded and went to use the facilities.

He came out and Hanna was visiting with Napoleon and acting as if she was an old friend.  Napoleon has such a way with people.

“All ready?”  Hanna asked as Illya joined them.

“We are.”

Have a good ride,”

“We will.”  Illya tried to sound confident as he was handed the reins of two horses.

They mounted and rode off.

***

In the movies, it looked so romantic, horses splashing through the surf, two people in love, laughing, and happy to be together on a great adventure. 

In reality, Illya’s back ached every time a hoof hit the sand.  His legs felt on fire and he was just ready to stop and…

Suddenly he swore bitterly in Russian.

“What’s wrong?”  Napoleon reined his horse in and let Illya catch up.

“Lunch.  It’s in the trunk of the car.”

“Ah, and I didn’t know to grab it.  Sorry.”

“My fault.”  Illya looked around.  There was no one else in view.  The day had gone from partly cloudy to an entire blanket of gray clouds, thick and low.  “Let’s hold up over there for a few minutes and then we can head back.”

“Problem?”

“One for every daring escape and not so daring capture.  My back is killing me… and my legs”

“Oh, thank God I thought it was just me.”

They dismounted, tied off the horses to a piece of driftwood and limped to a sand dune.   Illya eased himself down with a groan.

“Face it, my love, we aren’t the men we used to be.”  Napoleon sat down cautiously, wincing just a little.

“Nor are we the men we will become.  As long as it is together---“

Napoleon’s kiss interrupted him and for a long moment it was just them, the sea and the increasing winds.

“Ow,” Napoleon yipped as his face was peppered by a blast on sand.  “I think we need to take this inside.”  He studied the horizon.  “That storm’s coming faster than they thought.”

“Napoleon?”

“Yes?

“Where are the horses?”

***

Illya could barely get one foot in front of the other.  He knew now why Waverly pulled his agents from the field at forty.  As a younger man, he would have outraced the wind and the rain and laughed at it.

Now he was cold, aching and very, very hungry.  The horses had beaten them back to the barn and Hanna, concerned, had come looking for them, but it wasn’t before the rain hit.  The ride back in the open jeep had been another exercise in pain.

Back in their room, Illya stared out at the storm.  He’d planned a romantic dinner on the deck, but that wasn’t going to happen.  Nothing was going to happen.  What a mess he made of things.

He felt two arms encircle his waist and a soft kiss to the nape of his neck.

“Thank you,” Napoleon murmured, rubbing his cheek against Illya’s damp hair.

“For what?  For making a joke out of this weekend?  All I wanted was to give you the weekend you deserved and to let you know how grateful and content I am with us.”

“And you did that.  You arranged a perfect getaway.  We have a lovely cottage to ourselves, nothing to do for two days except be with each other and relax.”  He kissed Illya’s cheek. “The shower is yours.  You’ll feel better once you’ve warmed up.” 

“I doubt that.”

***

But again, Napoleon was right.  A few aspirin and the hot shower took the edge off Illya’s aches and made him feel marginally better.  He was toweling his hair and then paused.  He smelled something wonderfully delicious.

“I wondered how long it would take you.”  Napoleon was putting the finishing touches on the table.  A fire crackled happily in the fireplace and its light bathed the room in oranges and yellows.

“What is this?”

“You ordered dinner and when it was obvious that we weren’t going to be able to eat out on the deck, they brought it in here.”

“If we’d gotten our original room, you would have a view of the sea.  I know you love it.”

“I have a perfect view of what I love right here, thank you.”

“You are only saying that because I am naked.”  Illya picked up his robe and put it on, belting it loosely closed.

“Well, I won’t argue that it helps.”  Napoleon handed him a glass of champagne and they toasted.  “To many more years.”

“To good intentions not always realized.”

“And to know when they are.”  They drank and they kissed, gently at first, then with more passion.  At least until Napoleon pulled away.  “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“I love you and you know that, but I am very hungry,” Illya confessed and his stomach grumbled as if to punctuate his statement.

“Then food first, bed later.”

***

It wasn’t much later, Illya had to admit.  They ate, but they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.  Halfway through the entrée, they gave up and toppled into bed for a bout of frantic lovemaking.    Dessert was interrupted by yet another less hurried and equally satisfying session.

Now, spooned against a slumbering Napoleon, Illya watched the fire and listened to the rain as it beat steadily on the roof of the cabin, an intoxicating lullaby.  Tomorrow the storm would clear or it wouldn’t.  At this point, Illya no longer cared.

He tightened his grip slightly and smiled as Napoleon sighed in his sleep.  Illya had been right all along.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this, but now he was very, very glad it was.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
